Holding Toads and finding God

riding her story into the storm

an experienced veteran of a life designed

by the hands of a widow who purged her goodbyes

dodging whispers of the windows who watch her sleep

tossing and turning into the night that takes her deep

plundering,

plowing,

across dreams that dare to be detrimental

those that she may keep

……

enough that she seeks solitude in the closed door

teasing her with lock and key

that burns embers in her heart

awakening fuzzy memories faded over time

like an old photograph found behind vintage drawers

cast open by the might that she may remember the tattered face

that stare back at her weary eyes, blue twinkling at the grin

of the little girl standing proud in the corners of her grandmother's home

two hands heavy holding toads beside her heart

like a princess movie captured on ink

begging her innocence to kiss and unravel a man’s curse

with locks of white, whispy in the autumn air

a small feat for her rambunctious spirit

tho kisses them naught for a Prince she never believed she needed

the daughter of a hairdresser and an environmentalist

birthed into a household of pocket penny change

and late night hours turned booze filled saturday lake festivities

dancing across moonlit skies that tease and trick the families

into feeling free from burden long enough to take the sorrow away

and her, the small child of God, who lingered in their traumas

believed she was strong enough, whole enough,

to take their burdens heavy and place them on her tiny shoulders

for they were the generations of trial and error,

the humanness of lifetimes brought to her door and she welcomed them in

pledging before her Father that she held Hope in her arms

and Unconditional Love, a violet flame within her heart

and that she alone could hold their heavy hearts

palms out facing upwards to the sun

covered in soil after that playful morn catching toads

turning to God,

for her grandmother taught her how to sew

well enough that her Faith was firm

"I will sew together all the sins and pain of the world," she spoke

to the figure unseen by burdened eyes

though clear enough for a loving daughter

determined to make her Father proud

"I will transform these vices into a blanket of love and wrap its warmth around the whole world, so that they, too, will know your Love."

and her Father smiled, sun beaming down on his delightful daughter

who would walk towards an arduous life to understand the depths of dismay

to walk amongst the layover of the loneliest that lived

sit besides those who buried themselves, head in sand, needle in arm

four times rehabilitated in white washed walls

hungry to feel something, anything, to feel real -- to feel worthy

her own free will a spear moving forward plowing her way through

covering her in pink hair, fermented grapes that bought her a decade of denial

until one day she sat still enough, quiet enough, and felt her Father smile

as the sun lit up in the East side on that crisp October morning

a moment away from mundane tasks, sipping cinnamon coffee in a mason jar

across the universe buzzing in the background serving as a hymnal to her heart

pushing over her Pervian purse, she makes space for Him

for she is never and has never been alone

a journey traveled --trailing 31 years

mountainous monsters graveled in her vains

terrain matching that of Dante's mind

gasping ghouls and demonic doubts that she learned

were naught but a lack of love

For Hell was no match for a heart built by the hands of Mercy

for Grace surrounded her like oceans of emerald

salvaging her Salvation

breathing honesty, she let go

finding acceptance in the gesture that was a lifeboat

after years of learning her childhood regarded her as the scapegoat

for saying "Yes" to a helping hand was her greatest lesson

a child too stubborn to recognize she need not take the weight of her families burdens

that she need not crucify her soul to carry the world

that knowing Hell was her gift, but holding space for herself was her power

for when she sits long enough to be - just be -

she is with Him, she is Home -

and together they will pull filaments of forgotten families

fragments of faceted realities

shattered pieces of glass, mirroring truth,

ugly guttural truth

seven sins: symptoms of lack lustered love

lustful adornments cast outside the gates

swollen and still, paused in peril

wrathful that each mountain will not move when demanded

prideful toils perceived beauty rituals cast by righteous rewards

glamorized by glutenous deceit,

jousting in emotions of jade,

wishing, wanting, preying

on paths strayed

bellies full while an emptiness remains

in innocent eyes, the prize is not passion

but compassion

an empathetic hand held out to touch the foot of a daughter

who walked what she almost thought was a hollowed life

turned full, for her cup overfloweth

when sitting at the table of her Father

as together they sew those 7 patterns,

patchworked into perfection

a quilt of comfort

birthing the framework of Heaven

so that those who still may not be still enough

who may not yet feel worthy enough

may also know the warmth of Forgiveness

and understand without question, the true source of existence: Love.